Weakness
by stargazerdown
Summary: Will John find out what happened to Sherlock? What secrets is he hiding, and what reasons does he have? Warnings: rape (not too explicit) and possible attempted suicide (also not too explicit/disturbing). Maybe OOC, at some points. Preslash. I don't own Sherlock or its characters, but I wish I did.
1. Speak To Me

John walks slowly up the stairs, carefully balancing three bags of groceries. Quiet and calm, because that is who John is.

He opens the door to the flat, and is pleasantly surprised at the lack of the smell of decaying body parts. The things you get used to with Sherlock as a flat mate.

A year ago, John would never have guessed that he'd be shot. He would never have guessed that he'd end up here, sharing a flat with a brilliant, maddening, wonderful man named Sherlock Holmes. People said they balanced each other out, he and Sherlock. John, small and compact and normal and gentle – Sherlock, tall and skinny and fantastic and harsh. John whistles a tune, calmly, quietly, and sets the bags on the kitchen table. He takes out the cans of beans and stacks them up, making for the cabinet.

"Sherlock?" I'm home!"

Not a peep from the upstairs bedroom.

_Of course._

"No need to answer," he mutters. He balances the beans, trying to cradle them with one arm as he opens the pantry door. The stack of cans wobbles and finally crashes to the floor, rolling everywhere. John puts his hands over his face.

"Argh!"

He bends to pick them up. Arms full of cans, he notices it...

the blood. Dark drips and puddles of it, forming a trail across the kitchen and up the stairs leading to the bedrooms. Fresh blood. One of Sherlock's experiments? _I don't think so. _

Sherlock's blood, then. _Sherlock. _

His heart freezes. Dropping the cans, he runs up the the stairs-

"Sherlock?"

Knocking on the door- "Sherlock!"

Growing fear and panic overtake him.

Trying to open the bedroom door, he rattles the doorknob, it's locked, he _can't get in_-

"Sherlock!"

He knocks again. "Sherlock!" John hears a faint scuffling noise. He is relieved to know that Sherlock is not dead or unconscious- _Getting a bit dramatic, don't think that way- _but he is also worried. Why isn't Sherlock answering? His words come out in a rush, almost one sentence."I know you're in there, Sherlock, please, you're bleeding, you're hurt, open the door, Sherlock. _Sherlock..._" his voice breaks. Some call them a couple, but the reality is far different. No one can define what Sherlock is to John. No one can feel what John does about his best friend. _"_Sherlock...please..."

"John."

The deep baritone voice, usually so full of life and conveying so many emotions at once, is barely audible from the other side of the door. John breathes. Regains some of his calm.

"Good, Sherlock. Tell me what happened. Open the door. I'm a doctor, okay?"

Silence.

"Sherlock?"

Silence.

Panic crashes in waves against John's heart. He's worried, so worried. John, the army medic, the man who's seen unspeakably horrible things, his friends killed and mangled, does not worry. But he's worried now, because if he loses Sherlock, there will be nothing left to hold him together. "Sherlock!" He pounds at the door. He screams until his voice is hoarse, and then he sinks down with his back against the door and shakes. He does not cry. John can not cry anymore.

* * *

Sherlock drags himself up the stairs and closes the bedroom door behind him.

_John isn't home yet. Good._

He pulls off his blood-soaked clothes and tosses them in a pile next to his bed.

_I can't let John see me like this. _

_I can't let him find out. _

_What will he think of me then?_

_He'll think I'm...weak._

"_No!_" he shouts out loud. "He can never see my weaknesses...any of them."

_If John finds out, he'll think I'm weak._

_He'll think I'm a freak._

_He'll leave._

_John...don't leave me._

He lunges for the dresser, wincing with the unbearable pain. Yanking open a drawer, he sweeps objects off the top. They clatter into the compartment, landing among his socks. He sits down on the floor and presses his palms against his forehead.

A knock at the door.

"Sherlock!"

_John?_

Suddenly, the pain overcomes him. He slowly leans towards the ground, slumping as his hair brushes the carpet.

John rattles the doorknob.

"Sherlock!"

Sherlock is barely aware of anything but the horrible, horrible pain and John's voice, sounding muffled and...worried.

"John," he whispers, before he tastes blood and the world goes black.

* * *

**Please review! Really, please tell me what you think, even if you were utterly disgusted (constructive criticism is optimal). But if you liked it, I'd like to know too! :) Any questions, please ask by way of PM or review.**

**P.S. Anyone who finds the song reference wins all the prizes.**


	2. Breathe

John and Sherlock walk down the sidewalk towards Scotland Yard. The difference between the two men is almost comical. Sherlock is even darker and moodier that usual, his coat collar turned up and setting off his angular cheekbones. He walks in silence. John walks briskly alongside Sherlock, a head shorter and a determined look to his face. He is limping today. Sherlock has not noticed.

He came downstairs at seven, snatched the teapot from John, and poured himself a cup. How _stupid _John looked, he thought. Almost like a kicked puppy, with that expression on his face. Pathetic. He's pathetic. Why does he give a damn about me? Why does he _care_? Stop caring, John, stop caring, you imbecile, before you-

John cleared his throat.

Sherlock glared at him over the rim of his teacup.

"Sherlock- you alright, then?"

Glare.

"I mean, if anything happened, you can, um...I could try and help. You can talk to me, Sherlock, if you're...hurt or anything-"

Sherlock had slammed his cup down so hard it almost shattered. John winced. He pushed his chair back and stood. "You're weak. _Pathetic. _I will never confide in you, I will never respect you, and there is nothing wrong with me. Now please, leave me alone."

With that, he abruptly whisked around and pounded up the stairs two at a time.

They were forced to walk to the crime scene today, as John had no money on him and Sherlock petulantly refused to pay for a cab.

_Thud._

_Thud._

_Thud._

John's walking stick makes a conspicuously rhythmic tap on the sidewalk as he and Sherlock progress.

_Thud._

_Why won't he talk to me? _

_Thud._

_I know something happened, something serious, why can't he just tell me? _

_Thud._

_What does he have to hide?_

A gasp snaps John out of his thoughts, followed by the slap of skin against pavement.

_What...?_

He half-turns, and sees Sherlock on the ground, fallen to his knees. His breathing is hitched and ragged. His dark curls quiver as he slowly meets John's gaze. Coughs.

_He looks...helpless._

"Slow...down. Pl..."

John reaches out a hand. Clutching at his chest, Sherlock coughs again, pitches forward. John catches him under the arms before he can hit the sidewalk, sagging under the weight. His head lolls and crashes onto John's shoulder. Eyes closed, lips parted, pulse weak-

"Sherlock!"

_What's going on?_


	3. Time

_"Hellooo, sexy!"_

His words play over and over in Sherlock's head, burning themselves into his memory. A pain and humiliation he can't live with, but can never forget.

_He tries to make his words sound haughty, arrogant._

_"Why have I been brought here?"_

_The man facing him stares into his icy grey-blue eyes with murky brown ones of his own. He giggles. Sherlock can hear the absolute joy behind that cold laugh. The high-pitched voice sounds unbalanced, but Sherlock knows that his captor, the man with the Dublin accent who has trapped him here, chained to a bed, is capable of truly anything._

_Anything at all._

_He gains the courage to speak again, and again strives to keep his growing fear inaudible._

_"Where is John?'_

_James Moriarty, consulting criminal, laughs again. "Don't worry about your pet, Sherly. It's you I've decided to play with..."_

_Sherlock is relieved that John, his John, is safe, at least for now. But still he cannot repress a shudder. His naked frame trembles._

_"Moriarty..."_

_He puts forth a desperate effort to slip his hands out of the cold handcuffs binding him to the bed. The metal chafes his wrist. Moriarty chuckles and clucks his tongue._

_"No use in struggling, my dear," he says, a wicked smile curling his lips. "The Rohypnol has taken effect by now, of course."_

_His enemy takes both of his hands and locks them onto Sherlock's thin arms, pinning him back to the bed. He straddles his victim, who turns his face away, breathing shakily. Sherlock tries to think about something else, _anything_, and all that comes to mind is John and his gentle voice and his calmness in the face of danger and his comforting doctor's hands..._

_He's brought back to reality by a slap to the face so hard it draws blood._

_"Now, you didn't think you could ignore me, did you?" purrs Moriarty. Sherlock's eyes take in the man on top of him with the hard, glittering eyes, undoing his belt. John's eyes are firm and steadfast. John is...John would..._

_Moriarty strokes the dark locks away from Sherlock's pale face. He leans down and bites Sherlock's lip, breaking the skin. Sherlock tastes blood. His captor's thin mouth stretched into a wide grin._

_"Don't tell John, my sweet."_

_And then...and then he..._

Sherlock screams. His eyes flash open. He feels nauseous, unable to shake thoughts of Moriarty. He sits up and feels the sweat dripping down his face. He hears footsteps, running, coming closer.

"Sherlock?!"

John dashes in the bedroom. "What happened?"

Sherlock feels dizzy. He slumps back against the pillows. "John...why am I here? In bed?" His vision blurs. John slides in and out of focus.

_Why... is my face wet?_

He hears John sigh. When he speaks, a note of worry is prominent. "Sherlock, please. Tell me what's wrong."

_Tears? Am I crying?_

He gives in, and buries his head in his knees, body racked with sobs. His shoulders shake.

_How can I live with this?_

He feels warm, comforting arms around his skinny, balled-up frame. _John. _John is hugging him as though he can wring the sadness out of Sherlock's soul. "It's okay, Sherlock. You'll be alright."

_No...you're wrong, John. I'll never be alright again._

But John keeps holding him, the warmth of his knitted jumped making Sherlock's skin tingle.

_Please, John. Never let go._

_I'll fall apart._


	4. Reprise

John looks at the figure stretched on the couch. Legs and head over the sides, lips parted slightly, eyes shut- Sherlock is asleep.

_Finally._

John knows Sherlock hasn't slept for days. This is hardly an uncommon occurence- _he needs to start taking care of himself!_

John sighs, looking at his friend's sleeping form. Even though it's winter and freezing cold inside and out, Sherlock had insisted that the flat was far too hot, and was now wearing only boxer shorts and a shirt freshly stained with chemicals from his latest experiment. His chest shudders as he launches into a coughing fit.

_Again._

Over the past day, Sherlock's respiratory system seemed to have given out completely.

_I wish he'd just tell me what's wrong- he's probably sick, and no wonder! Not sleeping, walking around without a coat...he's shivering now, even._

Sherlock is indeed shivering, despite his claims about the temperature.

_He looks so vulnerable._

John sighs.

_I'll get him a blanket._

_And a new shirt._

He heads up to his room to fetch both.

He yanks the warmest, fuzziest blanket he can find off his bed and a knitted jumper out of his closet. An ugly jumper, admittedly, with slightly creepy black cats that eyed one beadily, but still guaranteed to keep Sherlock warm. He treads downstairs quietly. He gently covers Sherlock with the blanket, smiling as the consulting detective snuggles into the warmth.

_So you _are _cold._

He sets the sweater down for a moment and kneels to take Sherlock's temperature. Carefully, he puts the back of his hand on Sherlock's throat.

_He's burning up!_

He looks at Sherlock's flushed face and realizes that his eyes are on him.  
"Awake, then?"

Sherlock opens his mouth to reply, but his lungs betray him. His head jerks forward off the couch arm, and he starts coughing violently, neck muscles standing out with the strain. The hacking stops abruptly, and Sherlock leans his head back again and closes his eyes. His breathing is audible and uneven. He can feel John's eyes on him.

_Sickness...weakness...don't look at me, John._

John's voice is full of worry. "Sherlock, you're sick. It's probably bronchitis...you need a hospital, or at least some serious medications."

Sherlock shakes his head. "I'm...fine," he rasps.

John sighs. "You're not, Sherlock. Here, I've got a warmer shirt." He makes a movement to remove Sherlock's top. Sherlock slaps his hand with such force that John withdraws, stung. "No!"

_Don't look at me!_

John doesn't show his hurt. He stands, stiffly.

"Tea?"

"No...John. I'm fine."

John turns to go to the kitchen. Sherlock watches his back.

_I'm sorry, John._

Suddenly, he coughs even more harshly than before, his lungs revolting against his body, mistakenly trying to expel some unknown object. The coughs are swiftly replaced by gasping, as his body tries to find air. He can feel John at his side.

"Sherlock!"

_Can't...breathe._

John's warm presence surrounds him. Sherlock knows that John is worried. Confused.

_Oxygen not reaching brain._

_Have...to tell John._

He forces his tongue to move, wills his vocal cords to work.

_Please..._

He meets John's eyes, his own wide and wavering. He opens his mouth, but all that comes out are empty gasps.

John takes in Sherlock's face with a growing degree of panic. Though he was flushed with fever minutes ago, he is even more pale than usual, almost white. John reaches for the phone. "I'm calling an ambulance, Sherlock!" Sherlock shakes his head violently and lunges for the phone, falling off the couch and crashing to the floor. John's brain goes into overdrive. He frantically dials 999 as he crouches at Sherlock's side. "999, what is the nature of your emergency?"

"Um..." John's mind is trying to handle all these things at once. "My flatmate..." he begins before Sherlock's wheezing breaths stop and he lays still.

_No!_

He drops the phone and grabs Sherlock's wrist for a pulse.

_Slow and weak._

He hesitates before removing Sherlock's shirt, remembering his reaction before. But Sherlock is in serious trouble now.

_Hurry up!_

He unbuttons the shirt and practically tears it off Sherlock's slim chest.

His hands are over his friend's heart...then he sees the cut.

Deep, it is gashed from Sherlock's right shoulder to below his navel. John breathes in sharply as he sees more wounds are slashed and carved into Sherlock's body. Some have reopened and ooze blood. Most sickeningly of all are the words sliced over his ribcage, so downreaching John can see the bone.

_PET, _emblazoned in dark red.

"Sherlock..." he moans.

_What happened? _

_Who did this to you?_

John realizes the operator is still on the phone. Numbly, he lifts it to his ear and says something to call the paramedics off. He hangs up.

He's wasted time, too much time. He presses down on Sherlock's heart.

_One...two...three._

He puts his mouth over Sherlock's full lips and breathes.

_One...two._

The detective's chest rises and falls with John's breathing, but lies flat when John removes his mouth.

_Don't do this to me, Sherlock!_

He presses harder.

_One...two...three._

He puts his mouth over Sherlock's again. Breathes out, twice, with force. Tells himself not to cry...but the tears slide silently down his face.

John tries to blink them away. He practically slams on his friend with his palms, hearing the ribs crack. Most of the wounds are bleeding freely now, and both he and Sherlock are covered in blood and tears. To his relief, he feels Sherlock inhale beneath him.

Grey-blue eyes flicker open.

"John?"


	5. The Great Gig in the Sky

"John?"

_Is he...crying?_

John breathes. "Sherlock. Thank God..." His voice cracks, just audibly. "Oh, Sherlock..."

Suddenly, the sensation of John is enclosing him. John's head is buried in the crook of his neck, sandy hair tickling the side of his face, John's arms are around him, holding him tight, and he can smell the warm _John _scent...

but it _hurts._

_Why does it hurt?_

Physical pain, slashing through every fiber of his body...

_John? Why?_

John hears the sharp intake of breath and gently releases his flatmate.

Sherlock can feel the warm, sticky blood, slowly thickening and hardening on his torso. He looks down, almost paralyzed with fear, not daring to breathe. His shirt is open...his chest, bruised by the heart from the CPR, is exposed. The wounds, bold and crimson, stand out against the pallor.

_No!_

He desperately twists away from John, trying to conceal what is viciously carved into not only his body, but his mind. His _soul._

_He can't know._

_He _does _know._

He scrunches his knees to his chest, curling into fetal position. Shuts his eyes.

_John? Why?_

It torments him. He can live with the pain, but he cannot live without John. And he _knows _John is disgusted, repulsed by his weakness. His weaknesses...

_Don't go, John. Ever._

_Don't hate me for this, please._

_Please..._

He coughs once, feebly. His eyes open a crack. John is there, his face still wet. He looks...worried.

_Why is he always worried?_

John puts his soft fingers in Sherlock's messy hair, stroking through it. It is strangely calming. His face is concerned. "Sherlock..."

Sherlock lets a trembling sigh escape his lips.

_I am shattered._

_Hold me together, John._

"Sherlock, I...you can trust me, okay? I'm your friend. You can tell me _anything.__"_

_Weak...I'm weak..._

"Are you listening? Please, Sherlock. I need to ask you something."

_Anything...anything but that..._

"Who did this to you?"

_No._

He stands up. Too suddenly. The pain shoots through him like an arrow as he half-collapses, falling onto the chair arm for support. Blood drips slowly, then streaming, down his chest. He stumbles across the room, holding on to the walls and gasping for breath. Reaches the doorframe.

"Sherlock, no!"

Painfully, he takes his coat and scarf off the rack.

_Not weak._

John leaps to his feet in an attempt to restrain him. He reaches for Sherlock, then remembers the wounds. His arm drops. His tone is pleading.

"What are you doing?"

Sherlock wrenches the door open and steps out. He turns and looks back at John, eyes appearing larger than ever, sunken into his sockets. He lunges for the staircase leading outside. John's mouth forms an O as he sees Sherlock dash down the stairs. Doubled over in pain, the detective trips on the last step and falls. John shouts something as his friend lays there, pale and gasping on the ground. He runs down the flight of steps. Deliberately, before he can stop him, Sherlock pulls himself up and shoves himself out of the door that opens on to Baker Street.

"Sherlock!"

John frantically runs out onto the front step and looks out at the vast city of London.

Sherlock, who knows the streets and hideouts of the urban metropolis better than anyone, has disappeared, leaving only blood splattered on the street and a hurt and bewildered John.


	6. Money

John sits on a long, hard bench at the police station, just as he has for every day the past two weeks. Sitting outside the conference room, trying to guess what was going on- he knew the police probably had more important things to worry about than finding Sherlock, but still he wondered.

_Any leads? A scrap of paper, a bit of hair- haven't they found _anything _to get Sherlock back?_

A young female officer sits at a desk across the floor. She has see him walk in at every day, right when the station opened to the public, and sit on that bench silently, with grim determination, not leaving until it was closing time. Just sitting there, waiting...

_What is he waiting for?_

John looks up as he feels someone standing in front of him. A rather attractive brunette clears her throat.

_Does she work here?_

She speaks hesitantly. "Hello...I'm Sally. I've noticed you, just sitting here- if I could get you a coffee or anything?"

He just bows his head, shaking it slowly. He wishes he had words to say, but Sherlock has taken John's heart with him. She watches as he buries his head in his hands and starts to cry, tears trickling out from under his palms. He makes no sound other than the _shuff _of his jumper rubbing against the wall as his shoulders quake with sobs.

_Why did you do this to me, Sherlock?_

She backs away, slowly.

John's tears fall, dripping gently down his face.

* * *

Moriarty wipes the blood off his hand onto Sherlock's face. A whip lies next to the detective's helpless body, long since abandoned in favor of the knife now clutched in the Irishman's fingers. He gazes at Sherlock with contempt and bewilderment. He has whipped him, cut him, beaten him, taken him, controlled him, owned him- _twice. _The man he now straddles once more lies under him, completely shattered- or he should be.

Instead, he is beautiful.

Beautiful, not destroyed. No matter how many times he is slashed, bruised, mangled, starved, no matter how many times Moriarty forces himself on him, no matter how many cries echo through the underground prison, there is a silent beauty in Sherlock Holmes, a dignity in the soul that lies untouched, even as the body is beneath him, unconscious, naked, and deathly pale.

No, Sherlock is not yet shattered. But he will be.

Suddenly, viciously, he brings the knife down through layers of flesh and muscle. Sherlock's clear eyes fly open as Moriarty carves, letting loose a cry of suffering that is almost poignant, almost pathetic. He gasps emptily as the knife sinks deeper into his stomach, not quite able to lose consciousness again.

The Irishman smiles.

He bends down and licks his lips, and whispers to Sherlock how to make the pain stop...

* * *

He's gotten used to walking home, wandering through side alleys alone with his thoughts. He crawls through the dark corners of his mind and finds only Sherlock crouching there, tucked into every memory. So lost in pondering that he trips over the body curled in the middle of the back street.

_A drunk?_

He kneels down and shakes the person lightly.

"Hey, you okay?"

A face is turned toward him, and John instantly recognizes it- yet doesn't. Yes, it is the sharp cheekbones and dark curls and full mouth of his friend, but the haunted eyes tell him that this is some twisted, broken version of Sherlock. Even so-

_Thank you, God, for bringing him back to me._

But the flash of silver is also familiar.

_Gun._

John's eyes widen as memories of Afghanistan flood his mind, all the horror and blood like a tidal wave. He'd come back never expecting to have a gun pointed at him again, much less by his best friend. _Not Sherlock. This can't be him. _"Trust issues," she had written. He trusts one person- had let him in his heart, and look where it had led now.

_Why, Sherlock?_

He hears the low, throaty voice. "He wants me to kill you, John."

Their eyes meet and lock on to each other. Sherlock's voice is cracked from emotion and physical exhaustion. He speaks in a resigned tone, as if his words were dragged from his throat by force.

"He...hurt me, John. He beat me and then he did it again..."

_Weakness._

"...and he wants me to kill you, John, he...John...John, please..."

John touches Sherlock's shoulder. Sherlock coughs.

_Weaknesses. _

_I can't hide them anymore._

"It was Moriarty, John."

There, John knew now, and he would be embarrassed. Ashamed to even know someone so weak, but it didn't matter, he, Sherlock, was going to die in moments anyway, and-

When John sees the small red laser dot, just above Sherlock's heart, he cries out.

"Sherlock!"

But Sherlock knows. Kill John, or die. The choice was obvious from the start. His lips move, but he is resolved. Dizzy from blood loss...

_It's now or never._

He drops the gun.

"I love you, John."

His final weakness.

"Don't leave me," he whispers, before the unseen sniper pulls the trigger and the world is obscured by pain. He falls before John can catch him, screaming Sherlock's name in anguish.

* * *

**Thanks so much for reading! If you leave a review, I would be very happy. Any questions about the story, too- just ask!**


	7. Us and Them (Part 1)

John is tired.

His back hurts, from sitting in this hard plastic chair for close to a week now, and his mind hurts, with words like _nearly fatal _and _blood loss _and _coma _swirling around in it. But most of all, his heart hurts. It has been pushed to the breaking point, almost shattering with pain. Sherlock has been lying in this hospital bed for the past week, dead to the world...but not to John. Even though his face is so pale it almost blends in with the white sheets, even though those long, dark eyelashes do not so much as flutter, even though bandages cover half of his exposed chest, even though his condition has been labeled _critical_, Sherlock will wake up.

John clings tenuously to this hope, because it is all he can do.

Sherlock's arm has fallen off the side of the bed, and John picks up his hand and squeezes it, intertwining his fingers with the detective's.

_Come back to me, Sherlock. _

_I can't take this._

A silent sigh escapes Sherlock's lips.

He dreams, unaware of the patient doctor waiting by his side.


	8. Us and Them (Part 2)

_I am trapped._

Sherlock is lost in his mind, as his body burns down around him. He is riddled with holes, he can _feel _them, all leaking blood, and his blood turns into acid, dissolving him cell by cell, and he is on fire. He needs to scream. He does scream, and the noise echoes, bouncing off synapses. He can hear the roar, not sure if it is from his screams or the crackling flames that surround him.

_I can't get out._

He feels the blood slowing in his veins, feels it thickening, coagulating...he can't breathe, there's a splinter in his back, no, a rusty stake running through him, _he can't take it, _his heart is being squeezed, constricted, tighter and tighter...there are claws tearing at his back, his throat, his face...

_Where's John? _

Hands grab at his chest, reaching inside him, squeezing his heart _tighter, _ripping it out. He screams over and over until the blood melts his vocal cords. The person is controlling his heart, but it is still attached to him somehow, the blood poring from every pore in his body with each beat. He tilts his head upward, cruentous, blood flowing in a river out of his mouth, and he sees his heart in John's hand.

_John has my heart._

John has Sherlock's heart, and he will not let go.

Sherlock screams, but the nightmares do not stop.

* * *

John sees Sherlock's jaw muscles clench as he begins to tremble violently. John grabs the man's face with both hands, his fingers stroking through his flatmate's hair. His heart clenches, as though it is controlled by Sherlock's own weakening heartbeats. "Sherlock," he whispers, "Listen to me. Come back. I've already lost you once...I can't do it again. I know there are things you're not telling me, but...I..."

He turns his head to swallow tears.

"If you don't come back to me, Sherlock, I'll die."

_What are you doing to me, Sherlock?_


	9. Any Colour You Like

John has almost forgotten the colour of Sherlock's brilliant eyes when they finally open.

He isn't there to see them.

He isn't there to see Sherlock sit up and look around, and wonder why his John is not there. Sherlock calmly removes his IV and the tubes and wires connecting him to machines and monitors, puts on an orderly's uniform, and walks out the hospital door, leaving only smears of blood on the hospital bed. He takes a cab home, clinging to a tenuous hope that John might be at the flat. Why wasn't he at the hospital?

_He doesn't care anymore._

_He knows how weak I am._

_He will never come back._

He draws a shaky breath and tries to hold back the tears. He presses his hand to his side and feels the stickiness of the blood starting to seep through his stolen uniform. _Shit._ He knows it's a risk to leave the hospital this early, but it is the only way to find John. Even if John hates him now, even if he is disgusted, Sherlock needs to see him again.

He has walked up the stairs that lead to their flat so many times before, taking it for granted that John would be there with a cup of tea or a helpful word. But now, as he stands outside the door, he doesn't know what to expect, doesn't know if John will still be there. He draws a deep breath and enters the flat.

The one thing Sherlock didn't expect to see was John with tears in his eyes and his Browning in his hand, holding it against sandy hair matted with sweat.

_There is nothing left for me._

His hands shake slightly as he presses the gun to his temple, preparing himself to pull the trigger.

Sherlock's eyes widen.

"No!"

Sherlock half-tackles him, leaping at the doctor and pinning him to the floor while holding his arm down. He winces. _Damn, _it hurts.

"Sherlock?" John's voice trembles, his face streaked with tears.

"John... I'm so sorry."

"I thought you would die... I thought you were going to leave me..."

"I would never leave you, not willingly. I thought _you _were going to leave me, and-"_  
_

"Why would I leave you? You're my best friend. I was so worried that you would never wake up...it just..."

Sherlock swallows. "No, you don't understand. I'm _weak,_ John. There's asthma- pathetic! I can't breathe for extended periods of time, and then what happens? I have to rely on other _people_._" _He almost spat the last word. "And...I...was raped. By Moriarty."

_Moriarty. _

The blood rushes to John's head. _I'll kill that bastard._

_"_He did this?" John, suddenly alert, tears Sherlock's shirt upward, exposing the raw red wounds and the white bandages, now newly stained with blood. "Sherlock, you're still hurt! Why aren't you in the hospital?"

Sherlock tries to smile, but it comes out as a grimace. "I needed to see you. Even if you hate me."

"I hate Moriarty, not you. Why on earth would I hate you?"

"Because I am _weak, _John. Listen to me! I am _pathetic. _I am _worthless." _He coughs, and fresh blood soaks his chest. "Moriarty...it was like he owned me, John, and I was absolutely helpless...why don't you leave me? Look how weak I am!" He releases himself from on top of John and tries to stand, but instead lurches into the chair, seized by another coughing fit. He gestures wildly to his exposed chest, fingers clawing at the words written on his stomach. "Look at this! It says it right there, I am nothing but a _pet. _I was his toy, John. That is why you should hate me. I hid away my inhaler and medications, but you still found out I had asthma- you had to resuscitate me, for Christ's sake! Isn't it awful? Isn't it _maddening? _Aren't I _hopeless? _And the worst of it is, I love you, John. There, I said it again. I love you! You will leave me, and I love you."

He's wheezing now, audibly.

Slowly, John gets up and walks over to the chair. Sherlock's chest heaves with the effort of breathing.

"Sherlock. Sherlock? Just breathe, okay?"

Sherlock turns his head.

_John..._

"Look at me, Sherlock, alright? And pay attention to what I'm about to say."

He swallows, nods.

"When I came back to England, I hated myself. I was a useless soldier with a psychosomatic limp. Then I met you, and everything changed- you are brilliant, you've taught me so much. You say heroes don't exist, Sherlock, but you are my hero."

Their eyes meet.

"You're my best friend, Sherlock. You mean so much in my life, and I will never leave you. It's okay to rely on others once in a while."

All of a sudden, Sherlock melts into John's arms, half-collapsing with pain and exhaustion. John brushes a damp curl out of the fascinating blue-grey eyes and hugs his flatmate close. "It'll be okay, Sherlock."

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**All reviews, no matter what the length, are truly appreciated! Please tell me what you think (even if you hated it, I'd like to know what I should fix!)**


	10. Eclipse

The city is dim, the last of the sunlight fading away to be replaced by neon. Inside the flat on Baker Street, Sherlock sits on the living room couch with his head resting on his fist, asleep. Case files covered in Sherlock's messy scrawl are scattered everywhere, strewn across the table and floor, a sheaf of papers dangling loosely from the fingers of Sherlock's free hand. John's footsteps echo in the silence as he comes down the stairs, holding a thick blanket in his arms. He has been doing this more and more often, trying to reach out to Sherlock in his own subtle way. More times than not, he'll leave a folded blanket on the couch beside the detective and come down in the morning to find his flatmate nestled in its folds, still fast asleep. The sight always makes him happy, knowing that Sherlock has accepted even this little help. Tonight, Sherlock's hand slides back across his face as he sleeps, pulling the corner of his full mouth into a small smile. John smiles too, as he decides this time to tuck the blanket around his friend's thin body. He sighs, gently. Lately Sherlock has been working on cases nonstop until he dropped from exhaustion, like now. John worries, but if his flatmate won't use a proper bed, the least he can do is keep him warm. Suddenly, Sherlock jolts awake violently, sending the papers in his hand flying. John clears his throat. "Sherlock? You should really start sleeping in a bed, you know. Not eating, not sleeping on a case- it's not healthy."

Sherlock scoffs. "Health is boring." He draws the blanket closer around him.

"Of course you would say that."

John sits down beside him. "Can I say something a bit out of the blue?"

The detective sniffs. "Go ahead."

"You can tell me anything, you know. I...I'll always be here for you."

The flat again falls silent.

Then: "I know."

Sherlock throws the blanket over John's shoulders as well so that it encompasses both of them, then pulls the doctor's body closer to his in an awkward embrace. John hugs him back. They stay there a while, sharing the warmth of the blanket and each other.

"John?"

"Hm?"

"I love you."

John thinks for a moment, then snuggles closer.

"I love you too, Sherlock."

The morning's light finds them both asleep, still entwined on the couch.

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**I think that's probably the end! Thank you for reading this far. If you have any questions about the story, please ask! And yes, Sherlock did tell John he loved him before.**

**Also, there's another chapter after this- it's not part of the story, it's just explaining some bits of the story that I was asked about. **


	11. Questions Answered Here

***not related to the story***

**So people have been asking about Sherlock's asthma...**

**He's had two asthma attacks so far, one in Chapter 2 and one in Chapter 4, though John thought Sherlock might have just had bronchitis or something the second time. Also, I decided that he did have asthma before his encounter with Moriarty, but he had been keeping it under control with meds and an inhaler. He threw those out in Chapter 1 to prevent John from possibly finding out he had asthma (one of his weaknesses). Sorry, that wasn't too clear.**

**Also, that Sally police officer chick who was in Chapter 6? Yeah, she wasn't supposed to be Donovan, I just picked the name Sally. Whoops.**

**Leave a review!**


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